


Shivering

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Hataraku Maou-Sama! | The Devil Is a Part-Timer!
Genre: Awkward Conversations, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sleepy Cuddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-10
Updated: 2014-12-10
Packaged: 2018-02-28 01:47:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2714399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There are times Alciel wishes they had spent a little more money on thicker blankets." Alciel is freezing and Satan offers an easy solution that turns into significantly more than just sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shivering

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shiny_Pichu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiny_Pichu/gifts).



There are times Alciel wishes they had spent a little more money on thicker blankets.

It seemed like a luxury, originally. They can sleep with extra clothes on, after all, and with that and a roof it can’t possibly get  _that_  cold at night. But his calculations were wrong, or maybe human bodies are just more susceptible to the cold than he expected. It’s hardly like he has a frame of reference, after all. So when the cold really settles in, and the rain on the roof of the apartment is drumming out a hum of soothing white noise, Alciel finds himself curled into a ball under his blanket and shaking so badly that sleep is out of the question.

He doesn’t have a plan. Staying awake all night seems unreasonable but relaxing enough to rest is an impossibility; he’s starting to think maybe he’ll get exhausted enough to pass out for a few hours before dawn, or perhaps he’ll simply freeze to death and be spared the pain of continued existence. He’s contemplating this as his fingers go numb, resigning himself to his fate and wondering if it’s too late to pen a farewell note, when there’s movement behind him, the sound of Satan rolling over towards him.

“Alciel?” His name is stretched into sleepy curiosity, fades into a yawn on the last sound. “Are you still awake?”

“It’s fine,” Alciel lies. His voice is audibly shaking, undermining his attempts at waving away the concern in the question. “You should sleep, sire, you have work in the morning.”

“Why are you awake?” That sounds more awake, evidence of Alciel’s failure at reassurance even before a hand touches the hunched shiver of his shoulder. “Wow, you’re freezing.”

“You should sleep,” Alciel says again, a last weak attempt at responsibility, but it’s too late. Satan is scooting in closer to him, pulling at his shoulder to urge him to turn over while a knee bumps against the back of his leg.

“Here.” A bare foot kicks at his ankle, a thumb brushes the curve of his neck. “Roll over.”

Alciel has done many things in his life, but a standing point of pride is that he has never refused a direct order from his master. He rolls over.

Satan is holding his own blanket up, making the gesture a blatant offer of intimacy. Alciel wants to protest that he’s letting the heat escape, that he’ll be cold himself, but the draw of the extra insulation is too much for him to push away. He huddles in close, fits himself into the shadowed space between Satan’s body and the outside edge of the blanket, and Satan lets the blanket fall around his shoulders, drops his arm unthinking over Alciel’s shaking form.

It is  _so_ warm. Alciel knows the blankets are identical, there’s no reason Satan should be so incredibly warm in comparison to himself, but reason has nothing to do with the facts. The extra blanket feels like a heater, like it’s generating heat of its own, and Satan himself is positively  _radiant_ , so warm Alciel wants nothing so much as to press himself as close as he can get and bask in the comfort. His shaking is easing, the tension in his spine going softer as feeling comes tingling back to his fingertips, and the more he relaxes the closer they fit together.

“See,” Satan says, sounding drowsy and pleased with himself. He slides his arm up until his elbow is hooked around Alciel’s neck, shifts closer and throws a leg up over the other’s hip. The weight of his body is less than it used to be, a side effect of the thinner human form Alciel isn’t yet used to. It still feels like fire pressing him down against the floor. “Isn’t this better?”

“Yes, sire,” Alciel says. He’s not shivering anymore but his voice is still weirdly shaky, vibrating in his throat with uncontrollable tremors he can’t source.

Satan hears it too, misinterprets the cause. “Are you still cold?” He pulls harder at Alciel’s neck, urges him closer still so he can fit his chin to the top of the other’s head. “I dunno why you can’t stay warm on your own.”

Alciel’s certainly not having any problems staying warm right now. He feels like he’s burning, like Satan’s an open flame and he’s a moth with wings alight. He’s not shivering anymore but sleep is further now than it has been all night; he can’t close his eyes, can’t stop staring at the lopsided collar of Satan’s t-shirt where it’s dragged low over his collarbone. Satan’s breathing is levelling off, going slower and easier as the weight of his limbs drags heavier with impending unconsciousness, but Alciel’s is speeding, temptation pounding under his skin with every rushed human heartbeat.

He thinks Satan is finally asleep by the time he caves. He hasn’t moved for several minutes but for the slow rhythm of his breathing, and Alciel is so close anyway, and it’ll only be a moment, and no one but himself will ever know. He leans in, carefully to not disrupt the angle of Satan’s arm, and presses his lips very gently to the white glow of bare skin in front of his eyes.

“Alciel?” Satan says, and Alciel’s heart stalls entirely with the cold chill of absolute panic. “What are you doing?”

“Sire,” Alciel squeaks, partially to buy a moment of time and partially on instinct. “I thought you were asleep.”

“No,” Satan says, like that wasn’t perfectly obvious from the situation. “Are you kissing me?”

He doesn’t  _sound_  mad. Of course, Alciel isn’t sure if that’s because he  _really_  doesn’t sound mad, or if it’s just that the thud of Alciel’s panicked heartbeat in his ears is drowning out little things like emotional intonation. “Uh.”

“And my shoulder?” Satan shifts his weight; for a minute Alciel thinks he’s pulling away, but he’s just moving his arm. “I’m not totally sure, yet, but I’m pretty sure humans kiss on the lips same as demons.”

“Uh,” Alciel says again.

“I mean.” Satan shrugs. Alciel is so close he can see the motion in front of his eyes, can watch the weight of the other’s shirt slide back against his neck. “If you  _want_  to kiss my shoulder that’s fine.”

Alciel hears his voice like it’s echoing down a very long tunnel back to him. “It is?”

“Sure.” There’s a tug at Alciel’s hair, rather like the feeling of fingers dragging through the half-tangled strands. “You can kiss me if you want.”

The words don’t make any sense at all. Alciel is hearing the phrases, each individual sound is hitting his ear with perfect clarity, but the meaning is lost in the ringing disbelief that all but drowns out Satan’s next words.

“I just didn’t know you wanted to.” There’s another tug. Definitely fingers. Alciel can’t make it any farther than that, even when a thumb brushes against his hairline to push the fall of pale hair back from his face. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“I thought you’d say no,” Alciel hears his voice saying. It sounds dead, flattened into monotone with shock even though his blood is starting to flicker back into heat, the promise of a flame settling into his chest like maybe it can melt the lack of comprehension away.

“But I would have said yes,” Satan points out, like this is a patently obvious fact Alciel should have understood going into things.

“Sire,” Alciel says, and the ice around his throat cracks, melts into a rush of words across his tongue before he can even attempt to call them back. “This isn’t some trivial matter or a pursuit to further explore the sensual possibilities of this body.” The fingers are still in his hair. This isn’t fair. “In fact us being human has nothing to do with it at all.” They’re still moving, even, like Satan is trying to soothe away Alciel’s panic, or maybe just so unruffled that his touch is idle and unconscious. It would be less a source of stress if it didn’t feel so good. “I want to kiss you because.” Here it comes, Alciel can see the point of no return coming for him.

He chooses to fling himself bodily over it.

“Because I  _love_  you, sire.” His hands are curled in front of his chest, forming a barrier between his body and Satan’s; they clench into fists at his words, cling to the truth of them while preparing to defend against whatever reaction he receives. “I have for a long time, and I’m sorry for that, I understand it is an inappropriate response for a general to have for the Lord of Darkness himself and still more inappropriate to act on. It was wrong of me to kiss you, it would be far worse for me to take advantage of this compromising situation with you uninformed of the facts.”

He pauses to take a breath. He feels emptied out, hollow like the words he’s been storing for all these years have taken weight and substance with them when he said them. The air isn’t enough to fill the space in his chest.

“Is that everything?” Satan asks. Alciel can feel the words rumbling in the fragile human chest just before his face.

He doesn’t trust himself to speak. He nods instead.

“Good.” The fingers in Alciel’s hair slide down, curl in against the long strands at the back of his neck. “Are you going to kiss me now, or do I need to order you to?”

Alciel doesn’t speak. What he does instead is breathe out all at once, so suddenly the air whistles in his throat like the whimper he doesn’t quite intend to make, and turns his head up to see if that was a joke.

When lips land on his, he realizes it wasn’t.

The air is still cold. The room is just as frigid as it was a few minutes ago, when every breath Alciel took felt like accepting ice into his body and selling away the warmth of his blood. There is no possible way that can change this quickly. Yet his skin bursts into heat as if it’s the height of summer, the double layer of blankets over him sudden unnecessary weight, until the temperature of Alciel’s immediate surroundings would be uncomfortable if he were still paying attention to little things like the rest of his body.

He’s not. He isn’t moving, isn’t breathing, certainly isn’t kissing back; he’s just lying still, petrified by shock this time instead of cold, and the fingers at his neck are sliding in across the loose strands of his hair and he can feel Satan breathing against his cheek. There’s ripples of heat washing out over his body, tensing uselessly in his fingers and sparkling down his spine, and then Satan pulls away and says, “Are you going to kiss me back?”

“ _Oh_ ,” Alciel says, and “Sorry, sire!” and this time he leans in, too flustered by his failure to respond to overthink it. Satan’s lips are just as warm as the first time, it’s like kissing fire itself, but this time Alciel’s leaning into it, throwing himself headfirst into the heat until it is comfort instead of a burn. His hands tighten into fists for a moment, clench pressure against his palms; then Satan arches in closer, presses in against Alciel’s knuckles, and that offers a whole new possibility of its own. Alciel lets his hands go gentle, reaches to fit his arm in around the other’s waist, and then they’re pressed skin-close, his free hand is pinned between them with his palm flat against the rhythm of breathing under a worn-soft t-shirt.

There’s a touch at Alciel’s lips, the suggestion of damp; his head is spinning, his thoughts going hazy and drunk on adrenaline, but that doesn’t even require effort, that’s as easy as capitulating to his lord’s request. He opens his mouths, parts his lips in suggestion, and Satan’s tongue is sliding against his, he’s pressing in harder and Alciel is rolling back in instinctive submission. He doesn’t think this through before he’s moving, doesn’t realize the angle that will leave him in until Satan is half-toppling over him and that leg that was holding him down turns suddenly into their hips pressed close together.

“Mgh,” Alciel groans, not sure if it’s encouragement or protest he’s voicing. The blankets have slid down around Satan’s waist but the hot weight of the other’s body over his is more than enough to make up for the loss; Alciel’s shivering has nothing at all to do with cold, anymore.

Satan licks against the roof of his mouth once more, just for good measure, before he pulls away.

“You okay?” He sounds unreasonably calm, like this is something they do every day, until Alciel would think he’s not even reacting physically if he couldn’t feel the hint of resistance where Satan is pressed in against his hip.

“I am decidedly  _not_  okay,” Alciel manages. Lying may be his forte but honesty seems the better part of valor, at the moment. “Sire.”

Satan’s smile is wide and sudden. “Is that a problem?”

“Uh.” Satan shifts his weight, probably unintentionally, and Alciel’s whole body flares so hot he thinks he must be glowing. “ _Ah_. I believe I can bear it.”

“Cool.” Satan stares at him for a moment before tipping his head to the side, forming the shape of a question before he’s even spoken. “So do you just want to kiss?”

For a minute Alciel doesn’t understand the question. It  _sounds_  straightforward, but he’s pretty sure there’s some sort of underlying meaning he’s not getting, he can feel his forehead crinkling on confusion while he tries to push through the fog on his thoughts. “I don’t understand what you’re asking, sire.”

“You’re hard,” Satan says, calmly as though commenting on Alciel’s physical arousal is an ordinary part of their relationship. Alciel’s gaze drops out of focus, his thoughts flatline into an neutral buzz while he attempts to harness the heat in his veins to melt him into an unresponsive puddle on the floor. Unfortunately this is lost on the other, who continues talking so clearly Alciel can’t even pretend not to hear. “I’m not an expert in this yet, but I’m pretty sure the anatomy is close enough that I can figure it out.”

“Sire,” Alciel says, from a very far distance and with no idea how he’s going to finish the sentence; it’s more that he knows that’s a safe start for whatever will fall out of his mouth after. “Just so there’s no confusion. May I ask what  _precisely_  you are suggesting?”

“I’m suggesting I jerk you off,” Satan says, with the too-slow pace to his words that indicates the first edge of frustrated impatience. Alciel notices that rhythm, catalogues it as a fact of this moment, but it doesn’t touch the rung-bell echo in his head.

“Ah.” That sounds cold, monotone, but Alciel can’t even attempt to drag heat into his voice; it’s all occupied in rushing to flush him diamond-hard inside his pajama pants. Satan is still nearly sitting atop him, pressed in too close to miss his reaction, and Alciel is still waiting for the disbelief to fade when that white smiles flashes at him again.

“Is that a yes?” The fingers leave Alciel’s hair, drop down to push up the edge of his shirt. Alciel jerks at the skin-to-skin contact, lifts a hand in startled reflex to cover the heat of reaction that burns over his cheekbones.

“Whatever you care to do, sire.”

Alciel can’t see Satan’s smile with his face covered, but he can feel the satisfaction in how slow the touch at his stomach slides down, how delicate the fingers sliding under the waistband of his pants are. The weight over his legs is rocking back, Satan sitting up and taking his balance back over his knees, but Alciel can’t muster any kind of a complaint when every inch of this form’s skin is burning with the radiance from fingers pressed at his hip.

“Wow,” Satan says, and Alciel realizes there’s a chill against him, now, freezing air running up against the thudding heartbeat running blistering through his veins. “You really do like this.”

“Don’t mock me,” Alciel begs, but Satan is laughing, there is touch settling back against his neck.

“I’m not.” Pressure against flushed skin, fingers closing tight into a steady grip, and Alciel’s thoughts are ringing away again, he’s detaching from the present and drifting into some endless  _now_. “I’m just commenting.” That grip drags up, friction bursting like fireworks into Alciel’s senses; he’s arching off the floor, pressing into that touch without time to worry about self-consciousness or propriety. All his air vanishes, his mouth open soundlessly on an infinity of impossible sounds, and Satan is smiling at him, the corners of his mouth going soft with easy pleasure. It’s the same expression he wears when he drops his bag inside the front door, or takes the first bite of dinner, or pulls the blanket up over his shoulders before bed, like he’s relaxing into his body and shedding the public mask. It makes Alciel feel trusted, like he’s seeing something valuable and precious, hits him with enough breathless appreciation that the tension in his shoulders goes slack, he falls back boneless to the floor.

“Alciel?” Satan asks, his fingers shifting their grip and sliding up a little faster. “You okay?”

Alciel can’t breathe. His chest is fluttering tight, vibrating at some infinite resonance that doesn’t allow him a lungful of air, and his vision is going hazy, warm and dizzy until he thinks he has to breathe or pass out. Then Satan twists his hand, fragile human fingers flex tighter than Alciel thought they could, and there’s heat rushing through him, undoing every knot of restraint in his body. He groans some wordless wail and familiar sensation takes over him, pleasure just as hot and inescapable in human form as in demon that shakes through his veins and leaves him quivering against the floor.

“Woah,” Satan says. He shifts his hold, just up another inch, and Alciel jerks, the sensation verging on too-much if it wasn’t quite there before. Satan grins, lets his hold go so he can wipe his sticky fingers against the edge of his boxers.

Even this display of uncleanliness can’t form a protest in Alciel’s throat. He turns his head against his arm, opens his mouth to speak. “Sire, I--”

He intends to apologize, though for what he’s not sure, but Satan is waving a hand before he finishes, brushing aside the sentence before it forms. “I wanted to please you.” He says it easily, like the admission doesn’t shiver through Alciel’s entire body like flames licking at the inside of his skin, like the idea of  _Lord Satan_  thinking of  _him_  isn’t enough to tighten his spine with a shiver of embarrassed delight. “You more comfortable?”

Alciel can’t form an answer. He  _is_ , on every physical level -- he’s certainly not cold anymore, his skin is flushed warm enough that it’s entirely counteracting the chill of the air against his bared skin, and the weight of satisfaction is pulling him into relaxation in spite of his attempts to push it away, his human body insisting on sleep so vehemently he can’t overcome it through sheer force of will. Even the awkward prickle of self-consciousness is drowned out by the urge to shut his eyes and let the heat of pleasure lull him into sleep. But there’s something else there too, a sense of injustice and a need for reciprocation too hard-wired into Alciel’s being to be overcome by something as simple as physical exhaustion.

“Sire.” He angles an elbow under himself, pushes up off the floor until he’s sitting up, leaning in until he’s close enough to see the cat-eye color in Satan’s eyes, an echo of his true nature bleeding through even this apparently mortal shell. Satan is still smiling, easy and unconcerned; the expression doesn’t flicker when Alciel leans in, smooths easily into hummed pleasure as the other’s lips brush his. Even now, with Alciel warmed through-and-through by the physical contact, Satan is warmer than he is, his mouth burning when he tips his head and lets his lips part for Alciel’s exploration. Alciel can’t manage to courage to do more than touch the edge of his tongue to Satan’s lips, barely slipping into the heat of his mouth, but it’s enough to catch the bitter flavor off his tongue, enough that when Alciel pulls back his mouth is lit up with the unfamiliar taste, like sulfur sharp and irresistible across his skin.

“Please allow me to assist you as well,” he says, the words awkward and shy on his lips but coming so desperate he almost can’t hear the gaps between the words. His fingers catch at the sharp edge of narrow hips, brush over damp stickiness where Satan wiped his hand, and that should really be more of a deterrent than it is. All Alciel can think about is the weight of the other over his legs, the beginnings of arousal he felt when the other was lying atop him, and the absolute need to retrieve that reaction again.

“Sure,” Satan says, sliding sideways and rolling over onto the floor so for a moment Alciel’s fingers are empty and cold before he can turn to follow. It feels wrong, to invert their positions and lean in over the other’s form, as if he’s trying to claim control of the situation, but rocking back over his heels helps, feels more like he’s kneeling than exerting his dominance and soothes the rising edge of panic in his veins.

He has to pause to breathe before he can bring himself to pull at the other’s clothes. It’s all too much, caught in some dim-light dream world like he’s often thought about but never let himself  _expect_. But Satan doesn’t move away, doesn’t order him to stop, even when Alciel hooks his shaking fingers over the top edge of elastic waistband and starts to slide his boxers lower. It’s just clothes, after all, it’s not like he hasn’t touched this fabric dozens of times before, but it takes on a whole new meaning when every motion bares a little more pale skin, when Alciel can see Satan going half-hard before he’s even got him properly uncovered.

He really doesn’t have a plan. It’s all he can do to keep his hands from shaking, to control the blush that is threatening to overtake even the post-orgasmic flush across all his skin, and it’s both unfair and somehow perfectly appropriate that Satan himself seems perfectly calm, is lying relaxed across the floor like he’s done this a thousand times before, like this is an ordinary way to spend their evening. Even without a plan, he has some half-formed idea of touching, stroking, something familiar and easy that even his nerves can’t ruffle. This lasts exactly until he gets Satan’s boxers half-off his legs and really  _sees_  the flushed shape of the other laid bare to the air, and even the faint outline of a plan evaporates.

“Sire,” he says again, like the phrase is a touchstone, and dips forward and down to press his lips against Satan’s leg. He can feel the other jerk at the contact a moment before he hums in pleasure, is close enough to see the reaction pull him hard and expectant. Alciel kisses in sideways, prints a line of damp with his lips over Satan’s skin, and while Satan’s breathing starts to come choppy and fast he turns his head, and shuts his eyes, and slides his mouth down over the other’s cock. Whatever bitterness clung to his lips is multiplied twice-over, here, the burn familiar and intoxicating until Alciel is coming in further more for his own satisfaction than for Satan’s. All he can taste is the bitter salt of Satan on his tongue, the blistering heat pressing at his lips; when he opens his mouth wider, dips in farther, his breathing catches but Satan is groaning satisfaction, tipping up to get closer, and Alciel’s blood surges warm to more than make up for the lack of air. When he pulls back it’s for the friction of the motion more than to soothe the ache in his jaw; it hardly registers as pain under the adrenaline coursing through him, and then fingers push at his hair and there’s nothing but purring obedience under his skin.

Alciel falls into a rhythm without thinking. It’s not instinct guiding him, just heartbeat-quick response to the tiny motion of Satan’s touch against his hair and dragging over his scalp. He’s not even entirely certain Satan is trying to guide his motions as much as offering involuntary shuddering reaction, but that’s enough to steer him true; that’s part of Alciel’s job, too, to anticipate his master’s requests before Satan is forced to put words to them, and he prides himself on his skill. After a moment he thinks to close his lips tighter, to lick against the other as he moves, and the motion feels awkward and forced but the fingers in his hair seize up into a fist and Satan moans a choked reaction, so Alciel keeps going, licking and half-sucking whenever he can manage until any trace of rhythm or deliberation is gone. Satan’s got one hand fisted in his hair, the other arm angled under him to push himself half-off the floor, and Alciel’s holding onto his hips, bracing himself and pinning Satan in place at once so he can feel the thrum of tension building like his fingertips are drawing it to the surface. Then something gives way, the taut edge under Alciel’s fingers evaporates, and Satan is groaning again, tipping his head back so the sound drops low and quivering as he comes against the back of Alciel’s tongue. It’s a burst of bitter, salt and raw heat so far back in his mouth Alciel can do nothing but swallow hard, and it shouldn’t taste good but the burn of the aftertaste feels like the brand of ownership he’s always wanted.

Alciel doesn’t realize his head is spinning until he pulls back, takes a breath and feels his hands shaking on Satan’s skin. He has to tighten his grip to smooth off the tremble, is still clinging to the other when Satan huffs a sigh and lets himself fall back to the floor, his fingers slipping loose on Alciel’s hair.

“That was fun,” he says, catching himself with a yawn at the last word. “You wanna try to sleep again?”

Alciel forces his fingers to go slack, enough that when the other moves to pull his clothes mostly back into place Alciel’s hold slides free. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, isn’t even sure where he should look; then a hand closes at his shirt, drags until Alciel has to move or fear for the safety of his clothing. He’s too close, he doesn’t know where to focus his gaze as Satan pulls him up to eye-level, but it turns out to not matter. Satan’s eyes are shut anyway, he’s letting Alciel’s shirt go to throw an arm around his shoulders and drag his face in against the other’s shoulder.

“Grab the blankets,” he suggests, and after a moment Alciel hooks the fallen blankets with the tips of his fingers, drags the double layer back up over them both. It’s nearly  _too_  warm, now, with his skin flushed and his heart still racing, and it is  _definitely_  too warm when Satan wiggles in closer and throws his leg back around Alciel’s waist like he’s more a pillow than a person.

Alciel doesn’t think to complain. He breathes in against the soft of Satan’s t-shirt, shifts to work an arm free and drape it carefully around the other’s waist. Satan purrs faint appreciation and leans in closer, fits the burning warmth of his body against Alciel’s, and Alciel smiles and shuts his eyes, and he doesn’t shiver at all.


End file.
